The Quest of the Sacred Slipper eBook

And when finally I reopened my eyes, I sat up with
a suppressed cry. For a tall figure in a yellow
robe from beneath which peeped yellow slippers, a
figure crowned with a green turban, stood in the centre
of the apartment!

It was that of a majestic old man, white bearded,
with aquiline nose, and the fierce eagle eyes of a
fanatic set upon me sternly, reprovingly.

With folded arms he stood watching me, and I drew
a sharp breath and rose slowly to my feet.

There amid the yellow and green and gold, amid the
abominable reek of burning hashish I stood and faced
Hassan of Aleppo!

No words came to me; I was confounded.

Hassan spoke in that gentle voice which I had heard
only once before.

“Mr. Cavanagh,” he said, “I have
brought you here that I might warn you. Your
police are seeking me night and day, and I am fully
alive to my danger whilst I stay in your midst.
But for close upon a thousand years the Sheikh-al-jebal,
Lord of the Hashishin, has guarded the traditions
and the relics of the Prophet, Salla-’llahu
’ale yhi wasellem! I, Hassan of Aleppo,
am Sheikh of the Order to-day, and my sacred duty
has brought me here.”

The piercing gaze never left my face. I was
not yet by any means my own man and still I made no
reply.

“You have been wise,” continued Hassan,
“in that you have never touched the sacred slipper.
Had you lain hands upon it, no secrecy could have
availed you. The eye of the Hashishin sees all.
There is a shaft of light which the true Believer
perceives at night as he travels toward El-Medineh.
It is the light which uprises, a spiritual fire,
from the tomb of the Prophet (Salla-’llahu ’aleyhi
wasellem!). The relics also are radiant, though
in a lesser degree.”

He took a step toward me, spreading out his lean brown
hands, palms downward.

“A shaft of light,” he said impressively,
“shines upward now from London. It is
the light of the holy slipper.” He gazed
intently at the yellow drapery at the left of the
divan, but as though he were looking not at the wall
but through it. His features worked convulsively;
he was a man inspired. “I see it now!”
he almost whispered—­“that white light
by which the guardians of the relic may always know
its resting place!”

I managed to force words to my lips.

“If you know where the slipper is,” I
said, more for the sake of talking than for anything
else, “why do you not recover it?”

Hassan turned his eyes upon me again.

“Because the infidel dog,” he cried loudly,
“who has soiled it with his unclean touch, defies
us—­mocks us! He has suffered the loss
of the offending hand, but the evil ginn protect him;
he is inspired by efreets! But God is great
and Mohammed is His only Prophet! We shall triumph;
but it is written, oh, daring infidel, that you again
shall become the guardian of the slipper!”

He spoke like some prophet of old and I stared at
him fascinated. I was loth to believe his words.